I had thought that once the divorce took effect, our connection would
finally end.
But his voice came through the line, as commanding as ever:
“What are you doing out there? I don’t want to see your name appear at
any brand’s launch event.”
A soft laugh escaped my lips.
“Are you reminding me that I still belong to you?”
He paused for several seconds. When he spoke again, his tone had turned
cold.
“Don’t forget—every resource in this city is under my control.”
“Then give the whole city to Nova,” I replied evenly. “At least I’m
still willing to pretend I once loved you.”
A sharp exhale came through the receiver, followed by a breath heavy
with suppressed anger.
“You’ll have to live with your choices,” he said.
“I already am,” I murmured, and ended the call.
I didn’t expect that our conversation wasn’t over yet.
Five minutes later, a message arrived.
It was a photo.
In the picture, Lucas stood in a brightly lit banquet hall, holding a
bouquet of white roses, smiling as he slid a ring onto Nova’s finger.
Behind them, the musicians were playing A Thousand Years—
the same song that was supposed to play on my wedding day.
I stared at the screen, my fingers curling slowly into a fist.
A smile tugged at my lips, but it felt strange, unfamiliar—like it
belonged to someone else.
Another photo followed.
A preview of their wedding invitation.
Gold lettering across the cream paper read:
“Lucas & Nova — 11.11.”
That was the exact date I had arranged to leave for Paris with Solomon.
It struck me then—
as if the world had pressed “reset” at that very moment.
He was beginning a new marriage,
and I was about to begin a new life.
I didn’t look at the photos again.
I simply deleted the conversation and reopened Solomon’s email.
The cursor blinked over “Reply.”
I typed only a few words:
“Thank you for the invitation.
I accept. See you in Paris.”
The moment I hit “Send,” a gust of wind swept past the window.
It rattled the glass and lifted the sketches on my desk—
design drafts he had once dismissed as useless dreams.
The papers fluttered to the floor, scattering like soft feathers across
the room.
I bent down to pick one up.
On the back, in faint handwriting, were the words I had written five
years ago:
“A woman is not an accessory.
I am a creator.”
I stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled—
a real smile this time.
Maybe this was where my freedom truly began.
That night, I booked a flight.
Destination: Paris.
Departure date: November 11th.
At the very same moment Lucas would be celebrating his “new beginning,”
I would be flying toward mine.
